


the world has no right to my heart

by JBS_Forever



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Lots of sarcasm, Some light angst, cause the holidays are hard for Peter, teenage love is weird okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 12:11:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12983799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JBS_Forever/pseuds/JBS_Forever
Summary: Peter is dealing the best he can.(Peter/Michelle. Post Homecoming.)





	the world has no right to my heart

**Author's Note:**

> This ... this right here. I've been working on this thing for so long now (weeks and weeks) and I'm so excited about it. I don't really know if a lot of people even ship Michelle and Peter together or if there are only a few of us, but if you're here reading, thank you so much! I truly appreciate it!

 

“I know your secret.”

 

Peter chokes on his bite of pizza and sputters crumbs all over the table. Michelle stares him down.

 

“W-what?”

 

“Your secret,” she says again. Peter chugs the rest of his milk, hoping beyond hope she won't expand further and will forget about whatever she thinks she knows.

 

She can't _know_.

 

Can she?

 

“I dunno what you're talking about,” he says, his voice shaking and betraying him.

 

Michelle arches an eyebrow.

 

The bell rings.

 

Peter is rushing out of the cafeteria before he can make it worse.

 

 

 

 

The problem, one of many, is that Michelle is observant. Peter knows she was the only one to notice when he quit robotics and band. She's eerie like that, always sketching people and looking inside their souls. If someone is going to figure out his secret, it's definitely going to be her.

 

So, great.

 

 

 

“You didn't say anything, did you?” Peter is in the middle of gym class, pretending push-ups are hard and trying not to cast looks over toward the other end of the mats where Michelle is bench pressing a copy of _Freedom Is a Constant Struggle._

 

“Of course not,” says Ned. “The Guy in the Chair never tells.”

 

“Ned, last week you told a stranger on the street that Spider-Man was your best friend and that you beat him in an arm wrestling contest.”

 

“Name one part of that that isn't true.”

 

“How about all of it?”

 

“Wow. The super-hero life has changed you.”

 

Peter rolls his eyes. “I'm serious. Michelle thinks she knows something. Are you sure you didn't mention anything?”

 

“I'm positive,” Ned says, and then pauses. “At least ninety-eight percent sure.”

 

“What about the other two percent?”

 

“Well ...”

 

Peter looks up. Michelle catches his gaze, lifts her middle finger as way of a greeting, and returns to reading her book.

 

“I'm so screwed.”

 

 

 

It's not like he can avoid her. She is the captain of the Decathlon team now that Liz is in Oregon and she sits at their table at lunch and she's in at least three of his classes. Part of him wants to come out and ask her straightforward if she knows he parades around the city in a skintight costume. Another part wants to keep acting like it doesn't exist until it eventually goes away.

 

He doesn't sleep that night. To be fair, he hasn't slept most nights though. So it's definitely not about Michelle. Not at all. So what if she maybe knows his biggest secret in the world? Big deal. What's the worst she can do? Tell everyone?

 

Oh.

 

_Oh._

 

Shit.

 

That's exactly the worst she can do.

 

 

 

 

“ _Peter_.”

 

Peter snaps his head up and blinks quickly. “Huh, what?”

 

It's after the Decathlon meeting and he and Michelle are the only ones left standing outside the building. She crosses her arms over her chest.

 

“I _asked_ if you were coming to practice tomorrow.”

 

“Oh. Um. Yeah. Yeah, I'll be there.”

 

“I've heard that before.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and continues to stare at him. Peter shrinks under her gaze.

 

“Hey,” he says defensively. “I haven't missed practice in a while.”

 

“You missed it last week.”

 

“That was ...” That was an emergency during his last class of the day when some moron who bought one of the stolen alien tech devices accidentally built a bot that started attacking the entire block. But Peter can't tell Michelle that.

 

“...different,” he trails off.

 

Michelle is not impressed. “Smooth.”

 

“Yeah, I've heard that before.” The retort is so _actually_ smooth is surprises Peter himself. Michelle's lips pull into a rare and amused smirk. Then a car honks at them from the street and Michelle is disappearing down the steps.

 

“Be there or be square, loser,” she calls.

 

Peter watches her go and lingers behind until Happy arrives to take him to training.

 

 

 

In his defense, it's not that he _doesn't_ sleep, it's just that he doesn't _want_ to. He plays video games. He finishes homework. He watches movies. Eventually he closes his eyes, and then he feels buildings crashing down on him and his lungs constrict and he usually wakes up screaming so loud it brings May into his room to calm him down.

 

This time he dreams Michelle is in the building with him and he's gasping for air and she's standing there watching and saying, “I know your secret. I know your secret.” He wakes himself up before he can make a sound, but Michelle's voice still rings through his room.

 

 

 

She's not there at lunch. She misses fourth period too, but she shows up in History like she hasn't been gone half the day and she gives Peter a look to say “ _What_?” when she plops down in her chair. He returns his attention to his notebook.

 

“Psst.” A ball of rolled up paper hits him in the head. “Hey, you, with the ridiculous sweater.”

 

Peter glances her way. “This is the _school_ sweater,” he whispers.

 

“It's still ridiculous. Do you have a pencil I can borrow?”

 

“What happened to yours?”

 

“I dropped it in the ocean off the side of the Titanic. What, is this an interrogation? Do you have some weird attachment to your pencils? I'll give it back.”

 

He digs around in the front of his backpack and pulls one free, handing it to her. Their fingers brush together in the aisle between their seats. Mr. Halloway clears his throat.

 

“Am I interrupting?”

 

Heat spreads across Peter's cheeks. Michelle leans back in her chair and says, “Nope. Carry on.”

 

Peter wonders if she ever gets embarrassed. She's kind of cool in that way, like she never cares what people think or how she comes off. It's a little intimidating too. Kind of terrifying, if he's being honest.

 

“What're you staring at?” she asks.

 

He drops his gaze down.

 

 

 

The school starts decorating for the holidays. Peter stops sleeping at home, starts falling asleep during patrols, during training, in the middle of Spanish, the middle of Chemistry, the middle of lunch. He forgets for a few days about Michelle and what she thinks she knows. But soon enough, she's throwing another wadded up ball of paper at his head, snapping him out of his dozing. She's looking way too innocent when he turns her way, so he smooths out the picture and sees a drawing of himself, elbow propped up on the desk, chin resting in his hand. There's a line of drool sliding from his open mouth.

 

But … it's actually not a bad drawing. Not appealing, sure, but actually kind of really good.

 

Except there's a line of text underneath it that makes his blood turn cold.

 

_**You're not fooling anyone, Parker.** _

 

He throws it in the garbage on his way out of class.

 

 

 

 

This time he catches _her_ by surprise. He waits until the Decathlon meeting is over, doesn't even bother pretending the questions she asks aren't directed at him – “What is the most common type of spider?” and, “Which spider has the most dangerous venom?” and a dozen others he's chosen to block out because his heart is pounding and his skin feels like it's on fire and he needs this to be over.

 

The rest of the team filters out while Michelle gathers her notecards. Ned lingers a moment, but Peter waves him off and mouths, “I'll tell you later,” and Ned is gone with a hesitant goodbye because he knows just as well as Peter does this isn't going to be good.

 

When the last person leaves, Peter corners Michelle before she can do the same. He grips her arm and pushes her into the wall. She's strong, but Peter is stronger.

 

“Get off,” she says. “I've got lungs of steel. Don't make me use them.”

 

Peter sounds braver than he feels. “You're not gonna scream.”

 

“Is that a threat?”

 

“No, it's a fact. You would have done it already.”

 

She kicks his shin and he releases her. “True. What do you want, creepo? Is this some kind of _Misery_ thing?”

 

“What? No.” Peter scrubs a hand over his eyes. “Look, you know my secret. Fine. So what do you want?”

 

“Who says I want anything?”

 

“If you don't want anything, then why are you torturing me about it?”

 

“Because it's fun.”

 

“It's not fun for me.”

 

“Oh, don't be a baby. Blackmail is part of keeping secrets.” Michelle straightens her leather jacket and picks up a fallen card. “And you had to know you'd be found out at some point.”

 

Of course he had. It's already happened three times – Mr. Stark, Ned, May. There's no one who knows about him being Spider-Man that he actually told. He just never expected Michelle.

 

“Listen,” he says. “This is… it's big. Being in on a super-hero secret has its dangers and we need to talk about things.”

 

“I wouldn't exactly call it 'super-hero.'”

 

Despite himself, Peter feigns hurt. “Spider-Man is totally a super-hero.”

 

He sees it the moment it happens. Michelle's eyebrows lift, head cocking to the side. Her expression is oscillating somewhere between amusement and what Peter can only describe as disbelief.

 

“Spider- _what_?” Michelle asks.

 

“What?”

 

“You said Spider-Man.”

 

“I … “ Oh God, Peter wants to die. He wants to drop dead right here and now. “What … what were you talking about?”

 

“You bribing Mr. Harrington to stay on the Decathlon team after flaking on us so much.”

 

“... shit.”

 

What has he done?

 

“You,” Michelle says, a smirk playing across her lips, “Are a moron.”

 

Peter buries his face in his hands.

 

Yes. Yes, he is.

 

 

 

The next day is Saturday, so Peter has Michelle come over to talk while May is out. She spends a few seconds looking around the apartment and then makes a beeline for his room.

 

“What're you doing?”

 

“Important research.”

 

Peter sits on his bed. It's a little uncomfortable having Michelle in the same place he sleeps, but in all fairness, none of this is comfortable at all.

 

“If it makes you feel better, I already knew,” she says.

 

“You – what?”

 

“Hey, where is the suit? Is it here?” She riffles through his top drawer, flinging out sweaters and shirts.

 

“You're picking those up,” he says. “And Mr. Stark has it. He's doing upgrades. How long have you known?”

 

If Michelle can tell Peter is lying, she doesn't let on. The suit is literally in the ceiling above her exact spot, but Peter isn't going to tell her that.

 

“Since before Washington.” She nudges the drawer closed.

 

“Since –? Why didn't you say anything?”

 

“Why didn't _you_?”

 

The words “Because we're not friends” die in his throat before he can say them. He's not entirely sure _what_ they are.

 

He settles for something else. “I don't just walk around telling people I'm a super-hero.”

 

Michelle shrugs. “You just let them figure it out themselves. Smart. Are you guys doing a _Christmas with the Kranks_ thing this year? Or did you like join a temple or something?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“You have no decorations up,” she says. “And don't lie and tell me you don't love Christmas. Last year you and Ned had matching Santa hats with your names on them.”

 

Peter stares at his shoes. He could claim the despair rising in his stomach is sudden and new, but it has been building for weeks. In all the empty spaces, the shadows, the things he and May refuse to talk about.

 

“We've … been busy.”

 

It's loaded and weighted and full of lies, but lucky for him, Michelle doesn't pry. She just says, “Let's get a tree.”

 

“What?”

 

“Next weekend,” she says. “Let's get a tree.”

 

The feeling inside him swells. He spares a glance up at Michelle. “I don't … I mean, it's fine. I don't need a tree. May and I will throw some lights up or something.”

 

“They'll look great with the tree. And we're getting a real one. Not the stack of sticks those guys try to sell you in the subway.”

 

“I don't even know where to get a tree.”

 

“There's a place my dad and I went to across from Mount Sinai. They have the best ones I've seen.”

 

“That's in Astoria.”

 

“So?”

 

“So that's almost ten miles from here. You really want to carry a tree that far?”

 

“I have a car, moron.”

 

“Wait, you do?”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

Peter isn't sure why Michelle wants to go so far for a tree when there are plenty of stands that pop up along the street closer to them, but he lets her decide on it anyway. He doesn't really want the tree, so he doesn't care where it comes from. But Michelle is set.

 

 

 

On Sunday he clears a spot for it in the living room. He doesn't tell May what he's doing. He's afraid she'll be mad.

 

Sunday night, he sleeps for an hour before he wakes up gasping and choking and clutching his chest. May breathes with him until he's sure he's not going to pass out.

 

This tree thing is probably a mistake. This Michelle thing is probably one too.

 

But still …

 

 

 

Michelle beats Ned to the cafeteria the next day and sits across from Peter, not even bothering with a greeting before she says, “Do you know Black Widow?”

 

Peter whips his head around to make sure there's no one close enough to hear her.

 

“Jesus,” he says. “This is still a _secret_ , you know.”

 

“Oh chill. People think you're part of that internship. So do you?”

 

Ned takes this precise moment to drop down next to Peter. He looks between the two of them. “Do you what?”

 

“Nothing,” Peter says, right as Michelle says, “Does he know Black Widow?”

 

Ned's eyes go a little wide. Peter called him over the weekend to tell him what happened and they both spent a good half an hour playing out every worst situation and determining their deaths and then finally settling on it being a good thing that Michelle knows. Peter can't remember why that is now.

 

“Do you?” Ned asks.

 

“Oh my god.”

 

“It's a simple question, Parker,” Michelle says.

 

“Why do you want to know?”

 

“I'm writing a paper on kick-ass women,” she says. She wants to get an interview with Natasha. She wants to _use_ Peter.

 

“I'm not using you,” she argues. “I'm just extending my resources. It's called journalism.”

 

“It's called extortion. And it doesn't matter anyway. I don't know her.” Red blossoms across his cheeks. Yeah, okay, he needs to work on the whole lying thing. But the last time he saw Natasha isn't something he can talk about. Tony has him training with her at least twice a week and she looks like a different person. Her hair is blonde and her eyes are blue and she told Peter she's undercover for a mission, but Peter knows there's a lot more going on than that. He can't just be going around giving her number out to people.

 

Not that he has it … but that's beyond the point.

 

 

 

Michelle doesn't seem to care about points. She tries to get more sneaky about it.

 

During their Decathlon meeting, she throws in not-subtle little jabs to remind Peter he hasn't hooked her up yet.

 

“What is a sonic _black_ hole?” she asks Abe. And later, to Ned, “What family is the _widow_ spider a member of?”

 

Peter makes sure she sees his scowl. She makes sure he sees her middle finger.

 

 

 

By Wednesday, Michelle is officially sitting with Peter and Ned during lunch. Ned, who is sometimes way too nice for his own good, is actually worse at keeping secrets than Peter is, and he lets slide that Peter _does_ know Natasha and is seeing her after school.

 

“Dude.” Peter throws his hands up. “I told you that in confidence.”

 

Ned offers him an apologetic smile. “Sorry. You know it just happens sometimes.”

 

“You're a filthy liar,” Michelle says. “Give me her number.”

 

“I don't _have_ her number.”

 

“Then give me her email.”

 

“Why would I have her email?”

 

“I'm trying to give you the benefit here. Give me something.”

 

Peter only shakes his head. He needs Michelle to understand the thing with Natasha is fragile. But so is the thing with the tree, and Michelle is pushing that anyway.

 

“This isn't over,” she warns.

 

Peter doesn't doubt it is.

 

 

 

 

He falls asleep in History. Michelle hits his shoe with her own to wake him up. The damage is already done. Mr. Halloway holds him after class.

 

“We should talk,” he says.

 

Peter pulls his lips between his teeth and waits to be berated, but it doesn't come.

 

“This is the first Christmas, isn't it?” Mr. Halloway asks. “Since he's be gone?”

 

Peter's palms itch. The feeling of sadness creeps up on him, threatens to swallow him whole. He's distantly aware Michelle is out in the hallway waiting for him. Her combat boots are right in his line of vision.

 

He nods silently.

 

Mr. Halloway nods too.

 

“I can't imagine how hard this is for you,” he says. “Especially after everything you've been through.”

 

 _Please don't_ , Peter begs in his mind. Tears prick at his eyes.

 

“If you need to take some time, I and the rest of the staff will completely understand. You've been falling asleep in all your classes. We're concerned. You're a bright student, Peter, but don't push yourself. We know this is a difficult time for you and your aunt.”

 

Peter's throat is too tight to speak. He makes a motion of acknowledgment and books it out of there as fast as he can.

 

He nearly collides into Michelle.

 

“Jeez,” she says. “Where's the fire?”

 

Peter breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth. Michelle doesn't mention the conversation, even though Peter knows she heard it, and for that he is thankful. He doesn't want to talk about it anymore. He _can't_ talk about it anymore.

 

“Here.” She pries open his fist and shoves something into his fingers. He looks down at it.

 

“What's this?”

 

“Your pencil,” she says. “I told you I'd give it back.”

 

He folds a sweaty grip around it and swallows hard. “Did you get yours out of the ocean?”

 

“Nah. Some guy frozen in the ice got it first.”

 

And Peter doesn't know why, but he starts laughing like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard. Michelle, in her best Captain America impression, says, “Remember, kids, the most important weapon you can possess is the pencil. Trust me. I'd know.” And it's so dumb and so ridiculous that soon they both are laughing for no reason at all and people are turning to stare at them and he's sure they look like they are borderline crazy, but god it feels nice to laugh again.

 

And to laugh with her.

 

And what the hell does that mean?

 

He doesn't know.

 

 

 

 

When Saturday comes around, Peter has come up with a dozen different excuses not to go with Michelle. But by the time she arrives at his door, clad in clothes designed for cold weather, he brings up none of them.

 

“Let's go, loser.”

 

Michelle drives a beat up, yellow Geo. It's probably as old as they are, if not older, and Peter tries unsuccessfully to hold back his snickers.

 

“Keep it up and you'll regret it,” Michelle says.

 

Peter slides into the cramped passenger seat. His knees bang into the dashboard. “Scary.”

 

“Don't test me.”

 

“Why don't you say that again when we're not in this toy car?”

 

She hits him in the arm. “At least I _have_ a car.”

 

“I'm not sure this is much better.”

 

They pull into traffic and blend into a line of cars.

 

“How are we supposed to take a tree home in this thing?”

 

“It needs to be in your seat, so you have to walk back, obviously,” Michelle says.

 

“Wait, what?”

 

She rolls her eyes. “Told you to stop making jokes about the car.”

 

Peter smiles.

 

 

 

 

Fifteen minutes later they are searching for a spot on 30th and Peter is pointing out empty spaces that Michelle keeps driving by.

 

“You're literally the worst at helping,” she says.

 

“It's not my fault you keep missing them – there!”

 

She whips into the spot so fast Peter collides into the door.

 

“On second thought, walking home doesn't sound so bad.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

They have to walk back to the tree place, since Michelle already passed it, and Peter finds it harder and harder to make his feet move the closer they get. Michelle has a firm grip on his arm, though, and she pulls him right along with her.

 

“They've still got a great selection,” she says. “We're lucky. What kind do you want?”

 

Peter shrugs.

 

“How heavy are your ornaments?”

 

“I dunno. Not that heavy.”

 

Michelle asks him more questions, stops at certain trees to shake them out and test their strength. Some she passes by completely, muttering, “Absolutely not” as she goes, before she pauses in front of one and looks it up and down. It passes some unknown test and she nods, satisfied.

 

“This is it.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Do you like it? We're not getting a tree you don't like.”

 

Peter honestly can't tell the difference between it and any of the other ones. He's not entirely paying attention to them.

 

“It's fine,” he says, adding quickly when he sees her expression change, “It's good. It's perfect. May will love it.”

 

Will she? His stomach twists in knots.

 

It's only after they've paid for it, Michelle insisting they split it since Peter wasn't going to allow her to pay for it all, and they're tying it down to the roof of the car that Peter finds out they could have ordered it online and saved themselves the trouble.

 

“They even deliver!” He catches the end of the rope Michelle tosses him.

 

“Stop whining. Getting the tree is half the fun.”

 

“Tell that to your scratched car.”

 

“Eh. This thing is a piece of junk anyway.”

 

Michelle taps on the hood for good measure. They don't lose the tree on the way home. Peter doesn't know if he's glad about that or not.

 

 

 

“Do you have a stand?”

 

“A what?”

 

“A tree stand, genius.” Michelle balances the tree up against the wall in the living room. “You know, for it to stay upright? And so it can drink water? Have you ever had a tree before?”

 

“It's downstairs in our storage.”

 

“Let's go get it.”

 

“No,” he says, a little too fast. He backtracks quickly. “I'll go. You keep watch and make sure that thing doesn't fall over and break something.”

 

Michelle waves him off.

 

 

 

The storage space is filled with memories he doesn't want to see. He hasn't been down here since before it happened. He tries not to look at anything. Michelle doesn't belong here in the place he wishes he could take back. She doesn't belong in the bad thoughts.

 

He finds the stand and rips it out of a pile of junk. It all crashes down with a loud bang, and Peter scrambles away quickly like it will burn him if he comes in contact with anything else. His chest is constricting and his vision is swimming. He slams the gate closed and locks it, running the entire way up the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator.

 

Michelle throws him a look when he bursts through the door.

 

“You join a marathon while you were gone?”

 

He pants. “Just keeping in shape.”

 

“Yeah, I'm sure. Here, you set up the tree. I have to get something from the car.”

 

She comes back a few minutes later with a bundle of lights in her arms and drops them at her feet. “We had some extras.”

 

“Jesus.”

 

Untangling the mess is a different story entirely. It takes them a good twenty minutes to free the lights from their prison and then get them wrapped around the tree in a way that looks intentional and not like they just threw them on. It ends up looking pretty decent, but it isn't long enough to reach an outlet. So while Michelle digs through the hall closet to find an extension cord, Peter goes into May's room to get the box of ornaments and bring them out.

 

“You find it?” he calls.

 

Michelle comes sprinting into the living room with the cord held high like a trophy. “Success.”

 

A few arrangements later and the tree comes to life with a warm glow.

 

 

 

“Do you want to decorate it?”

 

“Um.” Peter glances at it from where he's sitting cross-legged on the floor. Michelle is next to him, gently rummaging through the fragile ornaments. She lifts a blue bulb with delicate fingers. On it, the letter “B” is written in Peter's seven-year-old handwriting.

 

“Peter?”

 

Peter startles and turns. May is standing a few feet behind the couch, looking between the tree and the two of them in front of it.

 

“What's this?”

 

He springs to his feet. “We … um, surprise?” he says weakly. “I'm sorry. I just … I don't want you to be mad.”

 

“Why would I be mad?” May asks gently, but she figures it out a second later, her face smoothing out. “Oh, Peter. It's perfect. I think he would have loved it.”

 

Tears well. Peter's throat stings. “You do?” he whispers.

 

“I _know_ he would have – because it came from you.”

 

The despair in Peter swells and swells until it's stretching so tight he can't breathe. May pulls him into an embrace and the feeling expands, rips and yanks against him, before it finally snaps, releasing a wave of pent up emotions.

 

He sobs relentlessly into May's shoulder. Behind him, Michelle stands patiently by the tree.

 

 

 

After he's calmed down enough to compose himself, Michelle sits next to him on the couch. She doesn't tease him or try to offer useless condolences. She just turns his wrist over and places an ornament in his hand.

 

“You should put it near the top. By the angel.”

 

The handwritten “B” stares up at him.

 

“It was his favorite decoration,” May says.

 

Peter wipes at his tears and stands, approaching the tree. He lifts the ornament up and hangs it at the angel's feet. It falls right into place. Protected, loved, never forgotten.

 

He steps back to look at it. Michelle steps beside him.

 

“Success,” he says with a watery laugh.

 

Her hand finds his and squeezes it gently.

 

 

 

 

They fall asleep later, each of them resting their heads on opposite arms of the couch, curled awkwardly so they both fit. May watches them from the kitchen. It's the first time in weeks Peter has truly slept. She has a feeling he'll stay asleep for a while this time.

 

She glances out the window and up to the cloudy sky.

 

“Success, Ben,” she says softly.

 

A single snowflake floats to the ground. Peter sighs in contentment. From the tree, blue and red and green lights bathe the wall and ceiling with promises of new beginnings.

 

The angel smiles down at them.

 

Success.

 

 


End file.
